


Straight Edge

by girlintheYhat



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Post-'Beat the Devil'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheYhat/pseuds/girlintheYhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-'Beat the Devil' one-shot. As Cal struggles to recover from his ordeal at the hands of Martin Walker, Gillian helps him on the long path towards healing. 'And you don't want to show this weakness, she thought, suddenly aware that he almost seemed smaller sitting there, fighting against the memories of struggling to breathe, of the silvery-grey barbed wire between life and death, of the desperation to keep away the all-quenching, soul-stealing and heart-stopping colourless blank of death. And failing. Over and over again in some sickening, noose-tight loop.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted at ff.net.

When the trembling subsided enough for him to loop his unsteady fingertips around the chain and tug at it, the wholesome pop and defeated gurgling from the plughole seemed to be mocking him again. As the paltry few inches of water drained away just as the colour faded from his face, Cal gripped the edge of the sink hard with his left hand, pulling a raking breath through his endlessly aching lungs while his right hand fumbled against denim for his phone. Seconds later, he'd typed out and sent a text message that autocorrect would have had a field day with had it been enabled. Additionally, it was definitely something he wouldn't normally have sent to someone so well-acquainted with the English language. The ever-cold porcelain was still curved under his hand when a vibration shook the other one, and he answered the call right away.

"Are you OK?" The blunt concern at the other end of the line cut through his slowly weakening shudders as he moved to perch precariously on the edge of the bath.

"I really need your help with somethin'." Masking the desperation, irritation and frustration was a fruitless task, and she agreed without even asking what the problem was. Of course she would, he thought, letting out a deep breath.

"OK, give me 20 minutes."

"Let yourself in. I'm in the bathroom."

"Oh, God, did you fall down?"

He couldn't sense any hint of mockery or teasing in her tone, but responded with all the humour he could manage to draw from deep within.

"Oi! I'm not that bloody old, I'll have you know!" No, not old. Just terrified of running water.

* * *

About 15 minutes later, with her heels clattering across the floor tiles and handbag laden with everything she could think of that might be useful in a precarious situation, Gillian found herself drinking in an unfamiliar scene. Instead of his usual casual, spider-like slouch, Cal was sitting bolt upright on a chair in the middle of the bathroom, eyes closed, hands clamped over his knees in a vice-like grip. Over the course of the weekend, his three-day stubble had turned to five, jaw hidden below hard lines, the rough whiskers only accentuating the pallor and pain on his face.

"I can't run the water for long enough to fill the sink. So I need a hand with this," he offered, fingers quickly circling the air around his jaw to accentuate the point before going swiftly back to his knees. "Didn't think you'd be too impressed if I turned up at tomorrow's meeting like this," he continued, hoping that she hadn't noticed the shaking.

"No, but I would have understood," she replied softly, moving closer to brush his arm gently with a comforting touch, not yet able to feel the tremors in his fingertips.

Tipping his head back slightly to indicate the cabinet behind him, he informed her where all the necessary tools were."All the stuff's on the bottom shelf."

The concentrated poise on her face soon turned into a frown as she wondered why he was bothered. They had been to countless meetings without him being fussed about being clean-shaven, or having even taken the time to consider which clients may have preferred the neater look.

"I'll get the warm water from the kitchen and you can do the rest," she stated, mindful of keeping him away from the hard thunder of running water.

"No." It was a sharp and precise reply and only then did she feel the weight of the situation, the word rifling into her belly like a rapier as he lifted his right hand from where it was clamped over his knee and she saw the uncontrollable shaking.

"It'd be like unleashin' Freddie Krueger on my face," he told her, the merest hint of mirth bubbling under the surface, breaking the deep well of silence in the room.

* * *

While filling a heatproof bowl with warm water in the kitchen, Gillian put the kettle on the stove and threw a tea bag and far too much sugar into a mug. Concentrating on nothing in particular, she felt the conflicting emotions inside her like the rising bubbles in the water – guilt, concern and fear rushing up and breaking the surface. Of course Cal had tried to hide just how deeply the experience had cut him. She felt as if it should have been obvious, that she should have been here days earlier. Changing tact, she slipped her phone out of her back pocket and fired off a short message before pacing back into the bathroom with the tea.

"What's this?" Cal's tone was gruff and just a little impatient as he contemplated the amber liquid.

"Sweet tea. Good for the nerves."

"That your professional opinion, is it?" This time there was a biting, caustic edge to his words, a sting borne of frustration and helplessness.

"You know, I think you can manage to find some Valium in the bathroom cabinet to steady your hands," she countered, his aggravation always the catalyst for her defiance. "Then you don't need me at all."

"No." This time it was a different sort of affirmation, bathed in acquiescence. "Sorry. It's just..."

She nodded, a silent agreement of understanding. "It's a lot. And you're still angry that I wasn't there for you right away." And you don't want to show this weakness, she thought, suddenly aware that he almost seemed smaller sitting there, fighting against the memories of struggling to breathe, of the silvery-grey barbed wire between life and death, of the desperation to keep away the all-quenching, soul-stealing and heart-stopping colourless blank of death. And failing. Over and over again in some sickening, noose-tight loop.

Cal found himself wincing at the scraping noise as Gillian dragged a chair across the floor tiles so she was sitting opposite him.

"I got in touch with Thomas Kane, an old colleague of mine. I think it would be good for you to talk to him."

At the third attempt, after watching the deep caramel liquid quiver inside the rim of the mug, he took a sip of the tea and scowled as the sugar assaulted his tastebuds.

"Why can't I talk to you?" It was an extremely frank question, with no softness and not even a splinter of hurt peeling off his tongue as he watched her intently.

"You can... but he's an expert."

"In what?"

"He has counselled a lot of people who were tortured." Those last three words were a struggle, everything so much more real and daunting when she actually said it out loud.

"Cheerful. But you're the expert in me."

"Which is exactly why you need him, too." While she would always offer unequivocal and near unconditional support, there was so much weight in everything they had between them and she could only carry so much. Outside influence combined with her comfort would be the best for both of them. At least, that's what she was trying to tell herself.

"Lucky me. A whole madness of shrinks," he offered dryly. "Anyway, can we stop natterin' and do somethin' about my face?"

"Oh, so now you _don't_ want to talk. I'll get the bowl of hot water."

He smiled in spite of himself when she returned, cradling the bowl close with two arms wrapped around it to prevent any possibility of the water sloshing about.

"I can't smell you from over here, so I take it that you've found a way to deal with washing?"

"Got Em to hose me down in the garden. Bit inappropriate, but what's a bloke to do?"

"Nah, I just had a cat lick as my Mum would have called it – just enough. All the drinks come from bottles, and Emily does the washing-up." A few short bursts from the taps had been just about tolerable, but filling the sink enough to rinse the razor blade time and time again – and finding the necessary steadiness in the hands – were different matters altogether.

The soft, velvety grasp of the towel around of his neck followed by the smooth safety of her hands neatly arranging it into the perfect position chased away the remaining threads of the tremors that had been rolling through his body. Slipping the bowl into the small wooden space on the chair that he wasn't sitting on, narrowly avoiding his lap, she eyed him expectantly, nodding towards the water with an affirmative glance.

"As much as I'm sure you'd like the thought, I'm not your nurse for tonight. You can make a start with the water." There was no hard edge to her words, just gentle play undercut with encouragement, the careful dance of her fingertips a rhythmic reassurance against his wrist. Gillian knew that she had to ensure that as much as she offered comfort and help, she also had to show him that it was possible to overcome the crushing grip of fear that had impinged into his daily life. Albeit one step at a time.

"Yes, Matron," Cal replied with a salacious grin, dabbing the warm water along his jaw and neck, little hot pearls rolling against his stubble-patterned skin. "S'pose a sponge bath is out of the question, then?"

The crack of her light slap on his arm intermingled with the perfect pitch of her laughter rolled off the tiles in an odd sonic contrast, an amalgam of joy and pain that seemed fitting in their presence.

"Definitely. I'm more of a sponge cake kind of girl."

Deep inside, she knew all the innuendo and joking was just a shroud for the turmoil; a well-worn and perfectly placed mask. As she searched for another towel in order to mop up any spills, she heard him rummaging in the bathroom cabinet.

"Pity. That slap was something you wouldn't get on the National Health." "Enough of the foreplay, though, love. Let's get to the main event."

With seeming unconcern he offered her the immaculate handle of a straight razor; its cold smoothness inlaid with intricate gold patterns that sheathed the sharp, silver steel beneath it. She eyed him with a good few ounces of incredulity as she felt the solid weight of it in her palm, before swinging out the blade with slow caution and watching the light reflect off its flawless edge.

"You shave with this?" "Don't you have a safety razor?" Somehow her throat was a little dry at the thought of having to use this unfamiliar and frankly deadly looking implement and press it so close to the major blood-carrying vessels in his neck.

"No."

"Doesn't Emily have one?"

"Wax. With aloe vera. I'm not puttin' that on my face."

"But you'll press this next to it?" When she held it out to illustrate the point, Gillian felt as if she were using some kind of weapon, even if in her mind, she was wondering whether Cal was more offended by the thought of the wax or the aloe vera. "It's beautiful, though," she added, eyes tracing the delicate maze of golden swirls flowing towards her wrist, averting her gaze from the iridescent silver of the blade. "Is it an heirloom?" The craft and quality were both indicative of something that had been well made and well looked after.

"Nah. It was a gift, though." "When I was about fifteen, my Dad took me to the barber's to have a proper shave. Some place in Shoreditch. It was rough as fuck round there back then, now it's full of ponces in Audis who eat stuffed olives. He told me that the cut-throat razor was for real men."

As if marking the occasion, Cal had pulled on a West Ham shirt. Back then it was the minimum of claret-and-blue cotton – no badges or sponsorship, just the colours. "Good choice, son," his father had exclaimed with a crafty smile. "Blood won't show on the claret," he'd added in a tone so cutting it was wrapped in barbed wire. Wrong, Cal thought, remembering all the aggro at the football in the late 1970s and early 1980s: the crunch of broken glass and fractured bones; the hypnotic nature of the songs and chants; the air coagulated with stale cigarettes, cheap cider and the tang of blood spilled on the terraces. An induction into a hooligan faction had seemed only a heartbeat away.

The barbershop window was opaque with condensation, seemingly the only point of interest and commerce in between the sandy-coloured boarded-up windows of a derelict shop and a house with its mortar crumbling out of the bricks, one of its walls painted with graffiti. Inside, a faint hint of antiseptic had played on his nostrils, while the burly figure of the barber, a red-cheeked man named Sid, had gone to greet them with an impassive expression. After the preparatory warm towels and the pleasing softness of the brush and soap came the first sight of the blade. The row of giant gold sovereigns on Sid's left hand looked like a knuckleduster, while he brandished the gleaming razor with a confident grin. All he had thought at that point was that he should have gone along with Terry's idea of nicking a packet of Gillette Blue from the chemist on the corner.

"Not to worry, son. I bet Bobby Moore has this done all the time," Sid had piped up, offering as much balm as a heavy-set man with seriousness branded in his gaze could muster.

At that moment, as Cal thought of the polished chrome, the rising steam and the angle of the reclining chair, the horror came back: the taste of the blocking, bloated cotton in his mouth, the unending rush of the water and the boiling-hot burn in his lungs were an overwhelming sensory cannonball. A rasping breath caught in the back of his throat and Gillian reacted in kind, clicking the blade firmly shut and reaching forward to encircle his wrists with her hands.

"It's OK," she breathed, gliding her palms along his arms to spread warmth further, reaching to put steady pressure on his shoulders. "You're safe."

With warmth fusing into his skin, he considered the thought that although she was highly qualified and that years of academic study shaped her into one of the best in her profession, he could tell that so much of the care she gave was natural. That aura of comfort just flooded from her eyes of lapis lazuli and rolled off her pale skin that harboured the heat of the California sun inside.

"I can go and get one of those battery-operated razors if it's easier?"

"Nah, let's just get it over and done with," he replied softly, grinning at the evidence of her practicality.

Gillian quickly gathered the soap and brush and contemplated angles in her mind before deciding that, just as with the blade, the closer the better was probably the best option. Rearranging so that her chair was next to his rather than opposite, she slid the bowl carefully onto it. Pale bristles darkened as the brush met the water before she turned it slowly clockwise against the soap until there was a rich lather on top of the solid green block. The sharp tang of citrus bit the air as she moved close enough to pass the brush over his jaw in gentle, precise sweeps, taking care to cover every inch of skin needed.

"So, did your Dad use one of these?" Once again she was transfixed by the beauty of the instrument, retrieving it with renewed purpose as she swallowed away the fear.

"Course not, he was a fuckin' coward." His derision was sharp as the razor. "It's got nothin' to do with him. I kept usin' it 'cos it's the best. Normal razor's got nothin' on that." After all, what had his father known about the straight edge of things – the normal lines of family life that set the boundaries for nurture and care? Nothing. While Cal could certainly never describe himself as someone who played by the rules, he knew that he had never broken any of the conventions that formed the frame of a husband and a father – no affairs, no hitting of women or children, no being a generally distasteful bastard that you wouldn't piss on if he were on fire.

Perhaps it wasn't so strange that he should use it, Gillian thought. Something slightly unconventional, but she could understand how it was fitting, with its microscopic, rapier-like edge much like the precise and unforgiving search for the truth. Something that should be used with precision and care. Even if his methods were sometimes cutting and dangerous, the knowledge that power comes with responsibility was always there.

A wicked smile was painted on his face when he realised just how close she intended to get in order to help; the stark blue of the denim of her jeans stretching over his as she slid her thighs over his knees, heels anchoring as best they could against the tiled floor. He couldn't pass up the opportunity for a quick look down the v-neck of her jumper, eyes following the soft red material to where it met in the middle. Ignoring the self-satisfied smirk on his face, and with the razor still firmly closed, she took his hands and hooked them over her hips.

"Hands here, and nowhere else." There was a flash of a steely glint in her eyes, silver splitting in blue, meshing with the solidity in her voice.

"You're in charge." "The view'll do nicely, anyway," he added, trapping his thumbs tightly in the belt loops of her jeans, but meeting her eyes as he did so.

With a smooth, casual flick, the blade was open. She took a moment to assess the correct angle before making the first slow, short passes with the razor; clean, smooth downstrokes against the grain. The soft trace of her fingertips followed soon after, testing and finding smooth skin in the wake of steel and soap. At the third pass he had to grit his teeth to fight away the fresh coils of desire turning south, her care and closeness causing a chaos of emotion. He was almost relieved when she turned away momentarily to clean the razor in the bowl. On the fourth set of precise cutting she felt the race of his blood, her thumb an echo against his pulse, a life-affirming synchronicity. The coarse, tight sound of the hair being cut was sharp in her ears and almost dangerously sensual. The final movement was painstakingly slow; he smiled at the deep-set concentration masking her features as she passed the flash of silver down across his chin, cutting the final patch of hair and soap from his skin.

Reaching for the towel on his shoulders, she cupped it into his cheeks and wiped away the moisture, rubbing the soft fibres against the slope of his jaw until everything was dry. "All done. I don't think I remember you ever being this neat. Which makes me think that…"

"Just wanted you to be here tonight." It was such a frank interruption that Gillian gripped his shoulders harder than expected in getting up, not meaning to react to his words with quite as much force.

"You only have to ask. It's not like I haven't sat beside your scruffy ass all night before." The lilting softness and humour wrapped in her tone did little to break the tightrope-tight thread of thought pulling through his brain.

"That's what I did last time. Ask." The quick, cut-and-dried nature of her refusal of dinner that night had not just been hurtful, but wholly confusing. It was something so uncharacteristic of the warm, supportive and ever-empathetic woman that he utterly adored.

"I..." The buzz of a text message alert was a both an unwelcome and a pleasant distraction. She absorbed the information quickly before pocketing her phone again. "You have your first appointment. Tuesday at 7."

"Better not be 7 a.m. Poor bloke won't know what's hit him." "That was quick, he owe you a favour or somethin'?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. You can leave that part to me." An enigmatic reply was a vain attempt to move on from being interrupted, but the need and supplication usually absent from his gaze bore into her, flint-hard and unrepentant.

Gillian bit her lip and fought away the thin veil of anger that she could feel falling across her face. Had she ever asked for any explanation about his behaviour? Never, not even when it had been deeply hurtful. Every time, the silent shadow of her forgiveness fell long and black and sure. Yet, deep in her heart, she knew this was different. The gravity of the situation warranted words and candour.

"I wanted to protect myself. We've carried so much hurt lately; I didn't think I could carry any more. I know that was a selfish thing to do, especially as you went through hell. I'm sorry, Cal."

"S'alright. Probably owe you a few apologies myself." How could he blame her for protecting herself after everything? After men with guns, the burning lights of Vegas, bomb threats.

A wry grin crept across her face as she knew that was as close to an 'I'm sorry' as she was likely to hear from his lips.

With the raise of an eyebrow and the merest hint of a wicked grin, he was keen to make the tone light again. "You got anywhere I can shave, then?"

"Do I look very hairy to you?" Tidying away the razor and soap, she tried not to laugh at the obvious deflection she'd just thrown his way, keeping the playfulness fully intact.

"So, I'll give you the directions for Tuesday, and we can make a start tomorrow night." She hadn't forgotten her internal insistence that her support would continue alongside the counselling that she had recommended.

"What happens tomorrow?"

"Just come to my place and you'll see." After all, she knew that he wouldn't be able to resist any kind of mystery, even if it would be something that she hoped would be simple and effective.

* * *

With a soft hint of vanilla in the air and the neatly arranged row of cosmetic bottles a bright band of colour in his eyes, he took a deep breath and perched on the edge of the bath. The edge was as cold as ever and brought back the previous night's tremors before they begun to be broken by the unyielding softness in her gaze.

"Are we goin' in for a dip, then?" He jerked his head towards the tub with a lascivious smirk, delighting in the quick eye-roll she sent his way.

Without any reply, Gillian gently shifted Cal towards the taps and bent to pop in the plug. She laced the fingers from his left hand into hers and gestured towards the taps with a gentle nod.

A painstakingly slow twist from his right hand creaked the valve open. A slow trickle was soon followed by a harder rush as the water began to flow freely into the bath. As he felt the familiar fearful tightness shoot across the base of his chest, he gripped her hand harder until the painful tingle of pins and needles arced into the tips of his fingers. With one hand still laced around cold metal and the other cocooned by the warm softness of her hand and gentle stroke of her thumb, trapped between comfort and control, he took a long and luxurious pull of air.

It was both a breath and a beginning; a step away from the devilish dark of death into the light of normality. The words and understanding from a stranger would never be as healing as the simple lace of her hand in his, the first building block of healing. It was a move towards the restoration of something stolen, a sharp curve being bent to a straight edge.


End file.
